The Baker Street Protector
by Redderhead
Summary: John always gets in scrapes and always comes out...somehow. Don't Own BBC or characters. JohnxSherlock fluffyness


John awoke with a start.  
>"I'll get you, just you...wait...what?" John stared wildly about the room. The daylight was flooding through the only window, every corner of the room lit brightly. No one. He was alone.<p>

He sat up and rubbed at his eyes, trying to recall what had happened the night before. He had gone to a case, had chased a suspect from a nightclub, before discovering that there were two men...but then, he couldn't remember after the confrontation.  
>How had he ended up tucked up in his own bed in Baker Street? This had happened before, four times in the last two months to be precise.<p>

John fought with his sheets to get to the edge of the bed. His feet reached cold wooden floorboard, he yawned and stretched his way into his blue stripped dressing gown.

As he made his way down the staircase, he heard the distinct noises of Mrs Hudson pottering about on the ground floor.

John flicked the kettle switch on whilst searching for a clean cup. He found the new newspaper on the arm of the chair he had claimed as his own ever since his first visit to Baker Street. He picked up the current newspaper, sitting heftily down with a groan, he unfolded it. A clean white envelope fell out of the fold and to the floor with a light thud.

"Ahh you're up! Didn't hear you come in last night, did you find out anything about the missing necklace?" Mrs Hudson cheered as she entered the kitchen. John looked up and smiled briefly before turning back to the slightly creased envelope with a frown.

"What could you eat for breakfast? You need to eat, you are getting as bad as him" John winced at Mrs Hudson's remark but he stayed silent.  
>He fidgeted with the envelope using the greatest caution, when it was open he turned it over. A small silver item fell into his lap and Mrs Hudson let out a whoop as she stood behind his right shoulder, John held it up in disbelief. The missing locket.<p>

"Pancakes today then!" Mrs Hudson said cheerfully patting John's shoulder. She shuffled down the stairs and into her own kitchen.

John made his way, still confused, over to his laptop and signed in to his blog. This was going to be a rather strange and bare report.

Over the past year John had been trying to keep his best friend alive by attempting to solve cases, not many, granted and not with the same efficient speed as the original consulting detective, but at least it distracted him from the pain.

It had been 278 days since Sherlock had thrown himself at the pavement, John had been counting the days subconsciously. It had hurt to hear Sherlock's last words in the form of lies, and he knew that's what they were. He had thought he meant more to Sherlock, but in the end, he was just his live-in assistant.

John signed into The Science of Deduction website to see if there was any further cases. There were two; a young boy who had lost his action man, and a young woman who had lost her husband. John sat back and seriously weighed up the two cases. He sighed when he realised what he was thinking and closed the lid of the laptop. He stood and moved to the window, glancing out of it fiddling with the locket unconsciously.

After a quarter of a pancake Mrs Hudson had brought him, John grabbed his coat and marched out the door to find a taxi.

The graveyard was the same cold and isolated place as it had been since that day. John walked sternly towards the old oak tree where he knew his friend would be. He had visited on a fortnightly schedule, however, this time was spontaneous. John approached the black marble simplistic stone.  
>"Hello" he stated as if his old friend was sitting on the stone waiting for him. John sat down cross legged in front of the stone and looked carefully at the two words written upon it.<br>John started to tell Sherlock all about the case that he had...somehow just solved.

-

Sherlock sat up against an old grave, apparently that of a Mr Thomas Anderson, which amused Sherlock greatly. He listened to his friend talking to, well, essentially him. The whole while Sherlock had a half smirk on his face. Of course John could not solve crimes on his own. For the past few months Sherlock had had to jump in and save the day no more than 4 times! He would wait for John to do his best and then he would leap and attack the criminals, lifting his poor John from where he had fallen unconscious, taken him to Baker Street and tuck him up in bed, with a light butterfly kiss to his forehead. The following day to a case solved, he would be waiting in the graveyard, no more than a stones' throw away from his own 'grave'.

Sherlock waited for John to get up and walk away before shifting himself, he ran through the streets, a shortcut back to Baker Street, he had to try and point John in the right direction of the missing husband.

John stared at his desk in disbelief; something was definitely going on here. There was a newspaper, folded onto a single page, with a paragraph highlighted; "No Memory, No Identity".

John phoned Lestrade and without taking his coat off, he picked up the paper and headed back out the door.

Of course it had to be the missing Mr Pommer. How could it not be? Lestrade breezed past John and patted his shoulder in a silent salute;

"How did you know?" Lestrade asked quietly.

"I err…I – well I just followed the clues, Gregg" John replied with a smile.

"I think someone's looking after you". Gregg said with a final pat to John's shoulder.

John made his way back home, he went to the coffee shop downstairs from 221B. As he stirred his coffee, he thought. How had that newspaper found its way to the desk? How was it highlighted so appropriately? How did he find his way home on so many occasions when he should surely wake up in a back alley or a ditch?

"John! Phonecall" Jimmy shouted from behind the counter.

John looked up sharply, must be Mycroft, no one else would try this café for him. John made his way through the back and picked up the abandoned phone from the shelf, what he heard, however, made John freeze from ear to toe.

"There are three men surrounding the café. Two out front, one inside. They are the ones responsible for Mr Pommer's death. Go to Jimmy, he will show you the fire escape. Come upstairs as quietly as you can." Sherlock sounded calm, collected and completely as John remembered him. John spluttered down the phone in response, but Sherlock had already hung up. It took John a couple of minutes to compose himself, he turned on his heel to see Jimmy signalling to him. John nodded his thanks and went through the door on his right without another word.

A couple of ladders and bathroom window later, John found himself in his own flat. Forced to follow his feet, he stumbled through the flat until he reached the living room area. A 6ft figure stood with his back to John, looking out of the window carefully, violin in left hand, mobile phone in his right.

"Have you seen the state of my bedroom?" Sherlock said in a blank tone, not turning round. "I can't

A loud thump echoed through the living room. Sherlock turned around and sighed, he set down his violin and his phone, making his way across the room. Sherlock swiftly bent down and hooked his arms underneath John's shoulder blades and knees, picking him up in one smooth movement.

John awoke in a dark room. He lay for a moment, trying to remember what his dream had been about. In one cruel flashback, it hit him with full velocity. It had been a dream about Sherlock returning to him. John began to cry.

Sherlock awoke in the corner of the room, his coat falling to the floor from where it had been on him like a blanket. He heard a strange sobbing sound. What was it? He got up and followed the sound, it was coming from the bed, from John?

Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed, rather uncomfortably. Without knowing what to do, he just lay forward, resting his head on John's chest.

John gasped in shock through his tears. He opened his eyes wide, looking down at the mass of dark curls on his chest. John slowly smiled as he pieced together his string of coincidences in the dark.

"My protector" John whispered. Sherlock lifted his head to look at John.

"You are not angry with me?" Sherlock asked tentatively.

"Furious" John said with a slight smile. "But if you kiss me now, I'll shout quieter at you in the morning".

Sherlock sat up in shock. Kiss? What was this mention of kissing all about?

John smiled up at him and sat up too; he raised his right hand, threading it through Sherlock's curls and around his neck, pulling him closer, he kissed the detective slowly and lovingly.

Sherlock remained as stiff as a tree, not sure how to move or respond.

John moved back and laughed at the expression he was receiving. After a moments silence, Sherlock moved forward again and captured John's lips in a first real kiss. Of course he loved John, why else would he go to such lengths to protect him? And now he was back to protect him forever.


End file.
